Everyday Ignatian is a series written by guest contributors, chronicling their daily lives and experiences through the lens of Ignatian spirituality.
My brain feels buzzy and my heartbeat frantic as I hit send on an email to my two writing partners, Catherine and Mary Beth. Attached to this email is an essay which I know to be the roughest of rough drafts, full of run-on sentences that drip with my messy emotions and half-formed thoughts. I type out a text, “I’m sorry. This piece is all over the place. Maybe I’m not in the headspace to write this?” My phone dings in reply almost instantly, “That’s your call, but we’re here for you either way. Be gentle with yourself. Proud of you for getting words on the page, can’t wait to read!” replies Mary Beth. Catherine replies after reading the draft with a simple reminder that raw emotion and messiness are expected in a first draft. She tells me that what I’m working on is important, and if I want to continue with it, she’s happy to talk through the essay over Zoom.
I breathe a sigh of relief. My mess of emotions and grammatical sins did not frighten them away; in fact, this maelstrom of feelings and insecurities only rallied them closer to my side. They have shown me, time and time again, the beauty of the spiritual practice of accompaniment. Their friendship has felt like walking alongside one another. We have developed trust that we are seen in times of consolation and desolation. We have learned to listen to one another’s stories, in order to create time and space to see God’s work in each other’s lives.
The essay I was struggling with focused on my divided feelings about the Catholic Church during the height of the discoveries of mass graves at the residential schools for Indigenous people. My heart felt fractured as the church admitted to the atrocities committed against Native people, specifically the removal of Indigenous children from their families and their placement in abusive boarding schools. For me, the unearthing of mass graves and the abuse which occurred in these schools was not only horrific, but also personal. This practice of compulsory removal and cultural erasure occurred for over 150 years, a period of time long enough that my great-grandmother and namesake recalled her experiences as a child in such a school.
My friends listened with compassion to my pain and confusion about a church that I loved being responsible for the cultural destruction and pain of my ancestors. They accepted the mess of my feelings without judgement or giving solutions. Instead, they listened, they prayed, and they grieved alongside me.
These dear friends read many iterations of what would eventually be published by Jesuits.org as “Grappling with my Catholic Faith and Native Identity this Thanksgiving.” They helped me to connect my own experience with more universal feelings of division within ourselves, and talked through where I was emotionally. When they read drafts containing excerpts about my family history, they gently checked to ensure I was ready to share. Their compassion and protection of my experience within the writing process greatly shaped the essay. And working through my pain in a creative space, with the support of loving friends, shifted my perspective from one of hurt to one of hope.
Forming these friendships years before writing the essay had granted a similar sense of hopefulness during a time when I felt weary from years spent in lockdown mothering young children. My heart longed for community, but creating it was difficult in a time of fear and polarizing opinions.
C.S. Lewis describes friendship as “born at the moment when one person says to another: ‘What? You too? I thought I was the only one.’” I felt the truth of Lewis’ definition as I read spirituality reflections from fellow women who were balancing creativity and motherhood and faith. Catherine and Mary Beth were two of my favorite authors from a publication called “Live Today Well.”
I began writing for the same publication and, over time, developed a friendship with each of them. The process of forging these bonds was gentle, crafted from gradual sharing and patient listening. In sharing facets of our lives with one another — our journeys in motherhood, our creative dreams and aspirations, and our faith lives — we encountered not only a deep sense of being seen and accepted by another, but also of being seen and known by God.
Discovering a kindred spirit with whom you can navigate the road of life is a gift. But it is not without effort. Opening up, sharing your vulnerabilities and fears, poses a daunting prospect; however, this is how we create true relationship and accompaniment. Sharing a friendship that only enjoys the fruits of happy times creates a frothy foundation: lovely and bubbly but lacking substance.
Ignatian friendships are defined by their connection to the idea of “magis” or “greater good;” in the case of friendship, this “greater good” looks like diving deeper than the surface level of relationships. These friends are willing to enter into the hard times beside you and continue to support and encourage you as you discern God’s presence in all things. When we walk alongside one another through the dark and the light, we find companions who not only encourage our growth but also point us towards Christ.
Writing an essay that navigated family history, personal feelings, and the spiritual journey of making peace with both my Catholic and Native identity would not have been possible without the creative and spiritual accompaniment of my dear friends. Having developed a trusting relationship with both Catherine and Mary Beth, I knew that they would walk alongside me as I navigated what God needed me to ponder and write.
Their support continued throughout the process of edits and even as I sent them a text in all capital letters to let them know that the piece was up on Jesuits.org, which was swiftly followed up by another text informing them that my sweet father had already emailed it to my entire extended family. We laughed and cheered together, enjoying the comfort of accompaniment that wraps our hearts in peace in both the highs and lows of this walk we call life.
